


When the Day Met the Pizza Delivery Guy

by SmileAndASong



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Band, Brendon Urie is somehow famous, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Musicians, Ryan Ross is the most overqualified pizza delivery guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmileAndASong/pseuds/SmileAndASong
Summary: “Your song, I hate it,” Ryan says, bluntly. “And I hear iteverywhere! On the radio, at work, the grocery store, christ, there’s just no escaping you.”“Gee, thanks,” Brendon mumbles. He knows that he shouldn’t get hurt and offended that some grumpy (and pretty) Pizza Hut delivery boy with a condescending vocabulary doesn’t like his music.But...he’s totally hurt and offended.
Relationships: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	When the Day Met the Pizza Delivery Guy

**Author's Note:**

> I want to say something clever like “I can’t believe I’m writing a Ryden fanfiction in 2020!!!” but, I can fully believe I am writing a Ryden fanfiction in 2020. Like I said, shame went out the window a long time ago.
> 
> A few months ago I saw a post on Tumblr that said being a fan of Ryan Ross in 2020 is like being a fan of “some random dude living in Los Angeles, and that you might as well be a fan of the guy working at your local Pizza Hut”. That downright brutal callout has since become my favorite thing in the world, so of course, I decided to make a whole self-indulgent fanfiction around that premise. Plus, I’m not about to turn down any chance to poke fun at Brendon for High Hopes ;)
> 
> Fic is unbeta’d, any mistakes are my own, and it was written very quickly and at dangerous levels of Ryan Ross simping (I’d say sorry for projecting those onto Brendon so much in this fic, but I am not!) 
> 
> kudos and comments are always appreciated, thank you for taking the time to read!
> 
>  **EDIT, PLEASE READ:** This story was written prior to recent information and allegations against Brendon Urie coming to light. Please note that I stand with all the victims speaking out against him and Zack Hall, and that this story exists as all RPF does, in a completely separate sphere from the real-life counterparts of the characters featured in it.

Fame is still a relatively new concept for Brendon. It’s a strange sensation, hearing his voice, his music, on the radio when he’s stuck in that infamous Los Angeles traffic that is now his norm. Or seeing his face when he turns on the television, or music videos on the daily YouTube page? Weird, super weird.

His phone is constantly blowing up with an endless flood of notifications from his social media accounts (he really needs to adjust those settings…) and he’s constantly getting phone calls from the record label. They’re practically begging him for more music because apparently, sales for his singles are through the roof.

Success, it sure did come quickly for Brendon. And really, he is grateful for it all, very much so! But with success comes the pressure to maintain it; to outdo himself and his last efforts and give the people something even better than before. 

And with that, of course, comes writer’s block.

It’s been three days since starting his self induced ‘creative quarantine’, as he’s referring to it in his mind. So far, he’s barely written a damn thing. A few dead end lyrics, yeah, but with nothing to pair them with. No melodies or actual music. 

It’s frustrating because he’s _supposed_ to be able to do it all, be this one man show he’s constantly marketed as. But right now, it feels like he can’t even do the bare minimum.

Slamming, his hands down on the keyboard, he abruptly ends the tune he was trying out and runs a hand through his sweat-coated hair. 

“Not good enough…god, is _anything_ going to be good enough?” He mumbles frustratedly as he swivels his desk chair away from the keyboard and toward his guitar. He’s about to pick it up and start trying that out when his phone goes off with yet another notification. 

Only this time, it’s one from a name, or rather, person that actually matters: _hey man, how goes the new music?_ \- PW

It’s not surprising that Pete’s checking in, because unlike the money hungry corporate executives that work for him on his label, Pete actually cares about him beyond the bottom line. He’s a fellow artist, he gets it.

Grabbing the phone, Brendon types out his response: _Let’s just say it’s all still in the VERY early creative stages…_

 _lol that rough huh? don’t worry, the inspiration will come to you, and when you least expect it, too. creative muse is a real bitch like that_ \- PW

 _Haha, you’re telling me!_ \- BU

 _you should take a breather. stressing is just gonna make everything that much harder. when’s the last time you’ve eaten something?_ \- PW

Brendon looks up from his phone and bites down on his lower lip. There was that bowl of Fruit Loops this morning? Or was that last night? Or did he just _think_ about having cereal and then never actually make the effort to do so?

As he tries to recall, his phone goes off with another message from Pete: _the fact that you didn’t respond immediately tells me all i need to know. I’m gonna order you a pizza_ \- PW

 _No, no, you don’t have to do that! I’ve got food here, I’m good, I can make something!_ \- BU

 _whoops, already ordered it. you can expect a supreme pizza and hot wings at your door in the next forty minutes :)_ \- PW  
_and no pineapple anywhere near this pizza because fuck that! i actually like you lol_ \- PW

Brendon chuckles at the message: _Don’t worry, I’m not one of those crazy pineapple purists or anything!_

He pauses, briefly, before continuing to type: _But seriously, thanks, Pete! And not just for the pizza (although that is really cool of you!), but for everything. You’ve been so great and such a big support :)_

_anytime, dude! that’s what i’m here for! don’t be afraid to reach out if you need help, but i know you’ve got this!_ \- PW  
_for now, just eat and relax. and I mean it when I say it’ll come to you when you least expect it. it always does! good luck :)_ \- PW

Smiling at the message, Brendon switches his phone to Do Not Disturb mode (because the constant Instagram notifications aren’t going to do anything to help him relax) and puts it in his pocket. He eyes the guitar, sorely tempted, but ultimately gets up and finally walks out of the home studio -- that has been _far_ too much of a ‘home’ these past few days -- and into the LA sunlight. Wincing at the sun’s brightness, he moves swiftly into the house.

Similar to his music, his home is still something of a work in progress, just a cluttered mess of boxes, both the ones he packed himself and the ones he’s yet to open from the various online orders he made. Taking a seat on his brand new couch -- still in its plastic wrap and all -- he begins to sift through a small pile of boxes piled high on his coffee table. 

Probably not what Pete has in mind when he said ‘relax’, but it is at least a break from the grind.

He’s wondering just what the hell he was thinking ordering a bright orange dinnerware set, when a knock on the door pulls him out of the thought. 

“Pizza!” He says to himself excitedly. Much like his newfound fame, living alone is kind of strange so he talks to himself a lot. 

Maybe he should get a goldfish or something.

Standing up, he walks over to the front door and opens it, where he’s greeted by perhaps the most unenthused looking Pizza Hut employee imaginable. But also...one of the most attractive looking Pizza Hut employees imaginable -- wow! 

Despite the scowl he’s wearing, the guy’s got a really handsome face. It’s very delicate and soft, with eyes that especially stand out and pop. They’re the type of eyes that feel kind of intense, like they’re constantly judging you, but also the type that you just want to get lost in forever.

Which, Brendon is most definitely doing right now, his mouth agape and his own eyes wide.

“I knew it,” The beautiful and unenthused man says, scoffing.

Slowly, Brendon blinks, finally coming back to reality. “Huh?”

“I knew it was a joke name on the order. You’re not Pete Wentz.”

“What?” Brendon says, dumbly. “No, uh, I’m not. He just ordered the pizza for me.”

Beautiful and unenthused man -- or ‘Ryan’ according to the nametag pinned to his t-shirt -- looks at him dubiously. “You’re telling me that Pete Wentz ordered this pizza for you? That’s even more ludicrous than you using his name as a fake one.”

God, Brendon really wishes he knew what the hell ‘ludicrous’ means right now. 

It doesn’t sound very positive, and he’s almost certain Ryan isn’t referring to the rapper. “No, I mean it,he really did! He’s my...I guess boss? Although that doesn’t feel like the right word for it. But, uh I’m on his record label.”

“You’re a musician?” Ryan asks, his interest clearly piqued.

Brendon nods.

“What’s your name?”

“Brendon Urie.”

“...I’ve never heard of you.”

Ouch. 

“Well, uh, I’m kind of new?” Brendon explains, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t have a full album out just yet, but I’ve got a few singles? They get played on the radio.” 

Brendon considers his words carefully. He wants to find that healthy midpoint of impressing Ryan with his success, but also not just bragging and seeming egotistical. 

It seems to be working, as Ryan is still interested and asking questions. “What are they?”

“Well, the one that gets played the most is called High Hopes, and--”

That scowl creeps right back on Ryan’s face. “Oh, shit, you’re _that_ guy.”

“What do you mean _that_ guy?” Brendon asks, huffing stubbornly.

“Your song, I hate it,” Ryan says, bluntly. “And I hear it _everywhere_ \-- on the radio, at work, the grocery store, christ, there’s just no escaping you!”

God, with the way Ryan is referring to it, it’s like listening to his music is the highest form of torture imaginable. “Gee, thanks,” Brendon mumbles. He knows that he shouldn’t get hurt and offended because some grumpy (and pretty) Pizza Hut delivery boy with a condescending vocabulary doesn’t like his music.

But...he’s totally hurt and offended.

Ryan’s expression softens a little and he bites down on his lower lip. “I mean…” He begins, pausing before he continues. “It’s not _you_ specifically that’s bad. Just the lyrics and the composition. You’ve got a really great voice, even if it’s deluged with so much autotune.”

Brendon really wishes he knew what ‘deluged’ meant right now. 

But still, there’s a compliment there, that much he’s certain of. “Thank you!” He says cheerfully. “You seem to know a lot about music. Are you a musician, too?”

Ryan nods. “Yeah, I used to be a pretty big deal, but then I decided that the grandeur of fame and fortune couldn’t hold a candle to the career prospect of pizza delivery, so I gave it all up.”

It sounds like a joke (and Brendon really hopes that it is), but Ryan speaks in such a dry, matter-of-fact tone that implies sincerity. 

To play it safe, Brendon opts not to say anything and just smiles politely (and nervously).

Ryan raises a brow, those intense eyes most definitely judging him. “I’m kidding...”

“Right!” Brendon says quickly, forcing a chuckle. “I knew that!” 

“Mmm, Of course you did…” Ryan sighs, shifting the box of pizza he’s still holding to rest against his slim hip. “I’m still working on breaking into the scene, but it’s difficult. Although, if you can do it and be played on every radio station in the city every five minutes, I guess there are truly High Hopes for us all.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything and just keeps the nervous smile on his face.

“...that was also a joke,” Ryan says, dryly. “You can laugh, y’know. I’m closer to thirty years old than I want to be and delivering pizzas for a living. I could use any ego boost that I can get my hands on.”

“Huh?” Brendon blurts out. “Really? I mean, I’m surprised that you’re not getting compliments, like, all the time.”

“Oh?” Ryan asks. “And what would anyone compliment little old me on, Mr. Celebrity?”

Brendon’s cheeks flush bright red. Ryan _sounds_ like he’s flirting, but, like everything about him, Brendon can’t be sure. And he doesn’t want to be wrong and mess things up. Better go with something else to play it safe. “Your, uh, music!”

“You haven’t heard any of my music, we just met…” Ryan says. “How would you know if it’s any good?”

“Well, uh, I can find out then! Why don’t you come in and play something for me?” Brendon blurts out without thinking -- something he does far more often than he should. “I mean! If you want to? But if you’ve got work and other pizzas to deliver, that’s cool, no pressure.”

“I do have other pizzas to deliver, but this job means nothing to me, and I’m far too qualified for it as it is. If they fire me, it’d be a blessing.” Ryan hands the pizza and wings over to Brendon and lets himself in the house. “Got a guitar?”

“Yeah, in the studio, through the door and just past the pool.”

Ryan lets out a low whistle. “Woah, a studio _and_ a pool? That’s how you know you’ve made it! Hey, if you like what you hear, tell your buddy Pete Wentz all about me, yeah? And don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while.” He winks before heading off where Brendon directed him.

Alright, now he is _definitely_ certain that Ryan is flirting. Flushing, Brendon follows Ryan to the studio.

Ryan sits down in Brendon’s desk chair and takes off his cap, shaking his wavy hair out.

Brendon averts his gaze immediately, mainly so he can conceal how much he’s blushing, and sets the food aside on the end table. He sits down and watches Ryan tune the guitar as he prepares to play.

“So, do you write all of your own music?” Brendon asks.

“Of course,” Ryan says, affronted, like the idea of doing anything else was the worst offense one could commit.

“Cool, that’s awesome!” Brendon shifts in his seat. “Do you, uh, wanna tell me about the song?”

“Nope.” Ryan looks up from the guitar. “Good music doesn’t need an explanation; it speaks for itself. All I need you to do is sit back, shut up, and listen.”

“I...I can do all of that!” Brendon replies immediately. “No problem!”

A small smile forms on Ryan’s face, the first genuine one he’s worn thus far. It’s one as fast as it had arisen, but Brendon savors the sight, hoping he’ll be lucky enough to see it again in the near future.

But for now, there is music to be heard.

Slowly, Ryan starts to strum at the guitar, a serene and peaceful melody fills the small studio space. “ _A daydream spills from my corked head...breaks free of my wooden neck…_ ” He sings. “ _Like bobbing bait for bathing cod, floating flocks of candled swans...slowly drift across wax ponds_.”

Ryan’s voice is amazing. 

It’s interesting, because it’s not necessarily the strongest, no, and it’s not just Brendon’s ego talking when he knows that it’s not as powerful as his voice. But still, just like his smile, it’s so very beautiful, delicate and genuine, and it pairs perfectly with his lyrics and the imagery they evoke.

“ _The men all played along to marching drums, and boy did they have fun, behind the sea…_ ” Ryan continues, those captivating eyes following along with his fingers as he plays. “ _They sang so our matching legs are marching clocks, and we're all too small to talk to God._ ”  
Ryan looks up and meets Brendon’s gaze, smiling once again at him, but this time even bigger and brighter than before.

“ _Yes, we're all too smart, to talk to God…_ ”

Ryan finishes out the note he’s playing and brings the song to a gentle closure, leaning back into the chair. 

Brendon blinks a few times, slowly but surely coming back from the tranquil trance the music had put him in. “Wow…”

“Wow as in ‘wow, that was absolutely amazing, best thing that I ever heard, my music included’, or, ‘wow...what the hell was that supposed to be?” Ryan asks, drumming his fingers against the side of the guitar.

“Oh my god, the first one, for sure! That was amazing! It had this like retro flair to it, which was great, super refreshing to hear nowadays! And your lyrics! They’re absolutely amazing! Shit, no wonder you insulted mine…” Brendon laughs and leans forward, an eager look on his face “Is there more?” 

Ryan shakes his head. “Sadly, no. You’re not the only one who’s having a bad case of writer’s block. But hey, at least mine doesn’t have millions of dollars on the line.”

“Hey, I’m not at the millions stage just yet…” Brendon grumbles, though really, he’s not sure if he is. He’s got an accountant that handles that for him now, which is weird in itself. “But, y’know, once that song is finished, you just might be.”

“Yeah?” Ryan smirks a little. “Gonna tell the Fall Out Man all about me?”

“Sure! I mean, I can’t guarantee he’ll do anything, but like, he’d be crazy not to, what with how talented you are.”

Maybe it’s just the low lighting in the studio space, but Brendon can swear Ryan’s pale cheeks tint the slightest shade of pink. “Thank you,” Ryan says, and _finally_ , Brendon doesn’t have any doubt that there’s some ulterior motive; he’s certain Ryan means it.

Brendon smiles and nods. “But I’m sure he’ll love it! Pete, he’s a sucker for good lyrics, always the first thing he comments on when we talk music! You kind of remind me of him in that sense.”

“Oh yeah?” Ryan’s smirk grows a bit wider. “I remind you of your famous friends, huh?”

Brendon snorts. “Well, that depends on what you qualify as friends.” Brendon pauses, his eyes widening. 

Wait. That was good, real good. He grabs a notepad and pen from the coffee table and scribbles it down before he forgets it.

Ryan lets out a warm chuckle, and god, it’s almost as beautiful as his singing. “Inspiration strikes, I take it?”

“Yeah...god, those are the first lyrics -- well, potential lyrics -- I’ve written down all day! And it just came so easily, so naturally…” Looking up from his words, he meets Ryan’s gaze and stares at him incredulously. “You’re just...you’re unreal. Where have you been all my life?”

Ryan shrugs his shoulders. “Well, lately and regrettably, the Pizza Hut off of Sunset. And speaking of--” Ryan stands up and sets the guitar aside. “I should go. Not because I’m going back to work, but because the pizzas are going to stink up my car. And it’s not the company’s car, it’s _my_ car, y’know? And I’m not about to have it smell like greasy, processed pizza for the rest of its days.”

Brendon rises to his feet so fast he almost topples over. “You’ll come back, right?” He asks, sounding far more desperate than he wishes he did. “I mean, if I’m gonna tell Pete about you, I should, like, record your stuff. And I’ve got all the equipment here to do so! That, and maybe I can help you out with the song’s ending? Not that you _need_ help, but like...if you wanted some.”

Ryan is quiet for a brief moment that feels like an eternity and he stares at Brendon, but not with that harsh judgment. There’s a curiosity in his eyes, a warmth, and he smiles again.

“Yeah,” He agrees. “I think that can certainly be arranged.” He picks up the notebook that Brendon had scribbled the lyric in and writes something down in it. A phone number, presumably, but either he has one long area code, or he wrote something else, too. He closes the book before Brendon can see.

“Text me before ten, and I’ll block you.” The solemn tone of Ryan’s voice suggests that this isn’t a joke and he just might do more than simply block. 

Brendon nods right away.

“Good, glad we’re in agreement.” Ryan leans down and grabs his cap, putting it on backwards. “Alright, Mr. High Hopes Celebrity, I suppose we’ll be in touch.” He starts to walk out of the studio, but pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, and by the way, don’t eat the chicken wings. I was expecting you to be some asshole pretending to be Pete Wentz, so I may have spit on them. And it was just a rough morning at work in general…”

“I used to work in food service, I’ve been there,” He says, laughing. “But hey, your day got better, yeah?”

“Yeah. My _day_ did get much better.” The emphasis on the word ‘day’ is enough that Brendon notices it, but he’s too distracted by the parting smile Ryan is giving him. He once again savors it until Ryan turns on his heel and walks out of the studio.

Once he’s gone, Brendon opens the notebook and sees a phone number scribbled in the top corner, but as expected, there’s something else, written just underneath the lyric that he wrote down:

_All was golden in the sky  
All was golden when the day met the night_

And much like everything that pertains to Ryan, Brendon isn’t sure what it means. Is it supposed to be a continuation of the lyric he wrote? Is it some slightly cryptic attempt at flirting? What’s with his fascination with ‘day’, anyway? Brendon’s not so sure.

But the exciting part is? He’s going to find out.

Pete was right, inspiration really _does_ come when you least expect it and from the most unlikely of places.

And for Brendon, that just so happens to be from the smartest and most eccentric pizza delivery man in the city of Los Angeles.

**Author's Note:**

> if you want more Ryan Ross simp content or would like to yell at me about how he is the greatest musical artist of this generation, feel free to check me out on [tumblr](https://smileandasong.tumblr.com/):)


End file.
